


The More Things Change (The More They Stay the Sam)

by chamekke



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Humour, M/M, Magic!Gene, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-30
Updated: 2010-12-30
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamekke/pseuds/chamekke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Gene opens his mouth, weird things happen. Maybe it's because he's stinking drunk... or is Sam just getting the wrong meds again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More Things Change (The More They Stay the Sam)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [meta challenge](http://community.livejournal.com/1973flashfic/tag/meta%20challenge) on [](http://community.livejournal.com/1973flashfic)[](http://community.livejournal.com/1973flashfic)**1973flashfic** , although I have to warn you that the crack quotient may outrun the meta quotient. Oh hell, what am I saying... they're running hand in hand together through a field of daisies.

Sam had to agree with Gene: when you've secured a long-awaited conviction after tremendous effort, only a proper knees-up will do. And the previous night's bash at the Railway Arms had bordered on the bacchanalian. Sam had a foggy memory of Gene dancing on a table, tie askew, waving a bottle of Nelson's best whisky and bellowing his pride at having finally taken down Lawrence ("Larry") Coutts. Who was, of course, none other than Manchester's most notorious nonce-cum-blagger-cum-serial killer-cum-blackmailer-cum-rentboy-cum-litterbug.

The roar of delight that went up from the team had been deafening. Gene's green eyes briefly met Sam's hazel ones, and they smiled at each other. Sam unexpectedly felt a frisson of _something_ that defied definition.

So Sam went home by himself and spent some quality time with his _Shorter Oxford English Dictionary_ , trying to define it.

Which went some way toward explaining why Sam was ready to tuck into some really satisfying paperwork when he arrived at CID at six in the morning. At first he thought he was the first to arrive, but then he spotted the light in Gene's office and went to investigate.

It was a scene of shocking disorder. Scotch bottles were everywhere: on the desk, on the floor, tilting crazily out of file drawers, dangling from the light fixture in the ceiling. And right in the middle was Gene Hunt, pride of CID, lying diagonally across his desk and snoring loudly. The room was rank with whisky, stale cigarette smoke, and something that could only be described as man-musk.

Sam tiptoed in and assembled the empties quietly in a corner. Then he gave Gene a not-so-gentle poke. "Guv!"

Gene groaned, belched loudly several times, and mumbled, "Piss off."

"Guv? You're a mess. Go home, for God's sake. You shouldn't be here in this condition."

Gene burped. "No use," he muttered. "The missus's mum is staying with us for the week. I'd rather be back in National Service lying three to a cot and eating year-old rations than return to home and castle."

He grabbed the nearest bottle and drained it. Sam wrinkled his nose, disgusted.

"You're completely rat-arsed!"

Gene grinned at him. "And I plan to enjoy it, Tyler. _I've earned it._ " Lolling sideways, he pulled off his necktie with some difficulty, then threw it onto the desk. The paisley monstrosity lay there, loosely coiled, almost glowing under the fluorescent lights. For a moment Sam imagined he saw it move. "Now if you don't mind, I need me beauty sleep."

Sam rolled his eyes, but closed the door behind him and returned to the squad room. The station gradually filled up over the next hour, but Sam failed to notice, absorbed as he was in the finer points of alphabetising a hopelessly disordered filing system. It was when he heard an inarticulate bellow from Gene's office that he finally snapped to attention and realised where he was.

"Oi! Tyler! Get in here!"

Startled, Sam knocked his elbow against the neat stack of colour-coded files he'd just prepared. They fell to the floor in a rainbow of disarray. Muttering "Shit shit shit," he knelt down and carefully started picking them up.

"Oi, Samantha! Get your shapely arse in here! MOVE IT!"

Sam was aware of all eyes on him. He hurried for Gene's door in what normally took him five strides. He found himself scrambling to cross the distance, and what was even weirder, his legs were suddenly bare and chilled. He looked down at himself, frowning, and froze. Where had his trousers gone? Was that a _skirt_ wrapped so snugly around his hips? Where had these high heels come from? And underneath this _blouse_ , were those — were those —

"Samantha! SHIFT IT!"

Sam blinked twice, hard, and made it to the doorway. He paused, breathless, and felt a flush rising in his cheeks. "Guv?" he asked, in what was very disconcertingly _not_ a baritone voice.

Gene looked up at him from his sleeping-crab position and began to laugh. Sam felt offended.

"Guv!"

"Oh, this IS perfect," Gene snickered. "Always knew you were a girl at heart, of course. Not surprised you finally started dressing like one." He looked Sam up and down. "Makes sense you'd have such pathetically tiny tits."

Sam very definitely did _not_ look at that portion of his anatomy. Instead, he frowned. "I'm a gi— a woman?"

"Looks like," Gene said, taking a swig from a hipflask.

"And you called me Samantha."

"Yup."

"You _never_ call me Samantha."

"Is that so?" Gene asked, unimpressed. In the background, a heart monitor began slowly beeping. As strange voices began murmuring, Sam pressed his — her — his hands over his ears and strained to listen.

       
_Another overdose? Again?_   


_Not as such. We mixed up the meds. Sam ended up receiving — well, it's a bit embarrassing really. He got Mrs Pugsley's hormone replacement injection._

    

_Well, a small dose of oestrogen shouldn't hurt him. No reason not to keep this shtum, wouldn't you say? His mother's still livid about the noramphetamine..._

    

Sam shook his head and gave a resigned groan.

"...reminding Litton," Gene was saying, "that he owes me ten quid on our wager over Coutts, and I'm damned if I'm going to let him forget it." He looked at Sam appraisingly. "Now shift those pretty legs of yours before I knock you down to WPC."

Sam turned on his not-remotely-Cuban heel and fled.

* * * * *

He sat at his desk, trying to look as unobtrusive and unfeminine as possible, and _cross-referenced_ with all the dignity he could muster. It wasn't long before Ray appeared at his elbow, smirking and chewing his gum with what seemed to be deliberate malice. "Boss?"

"Yes, Ray?" Sam said.

"Just wanted to say you look even lovelier than usual."

Sam found himself crossing his arms over his chest. "Uh... thanks."

"Going undercover as a tranny? Or just expressing your innermost beauty?"

Sam stared at him coldly. "Don't you have yesterday's witness report to write, _Sergeant_? If you've done it and you're lacking things to do, there's a stack of backfiling in the collator's den could use your attention."

Ray scowled, muttered something unintelligible, and departed. Sam looked after him, thinking furiously. Like Gene, Ray had seemed surprised and amused by Sam's transformation, but not actually shocked. How likely was that? Possibly this was proof, he told himself, that this wasn't happening at all, not even within the "reality" of the coma. Could this be nothing more than a dream within a dream?

But his musings were interrupted by another bellow. "Raymundo! Here! NOW!"

Ray reappeared and made a beeline for Gene's office, closing the door behind him. Sam heard a murmur of voices, getting louder and louder, and then something very much like a shriek. Sam jumped to his feet, tugging distractedly at his skirt to keep it from riding up, and dashed into the office.

Ray was facing Gene, babbling incoherently and trembling from head to foot. As Sam came in, Ray spun and pointed at him, speaking a stream of rapid-fire syllables, then whirled back to face Gene again.

"Gene? What's going on?"

Hunt looked bland. "I dunno. I think he's speaking Italian."

"Spanish," Sam corrected him, frowning with effort. He tilted his head and managed to pick out a few phrases in Ray's thick Castilian: _can't understand_ and _governor_ and _who did this_. Moving closer, he clapped a hand on Ray's arm in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

" _Calm yourself_ ," Sam said, slowly and carefully, in his own halting Mexican Spanish. " _Speak to us in English._ "

Another staccato stream. Sam wasn't certain, but he thought he heard _can't speak my own language_ and _am I a Spaniard_ and _I want to kill myself_.

The irony was too delicious for Sam not to laugh. He snickered daintily and Ray rounded on him, furious.

" _¡Gilipollas! ¡Mámami!_ " he snarled, and lunged for Sam's bottom. He managed to get in a shockingly intimate grope before Sam spun out of reach.

" _¡Ay culo! ¡Déjame en paz!_ " Sam spat back, trembling with rage.

" _¡Maricón!_ " Ray sneered.

" _¡Hijo de puta!_ " Sam accused, drawing closer.

" _¡ **Hija** de puta!_ "

Ray moved closer still and drew his fist back. At this, Gene heaved himself off his desk and stepped between them. "Shut it, the pair of you!" he roared.

The two junior officers blinked, but obeyed.

"For Christ's sake, stop cursing in Dago! It's making my head hurt." Gene pulled another bottle out of his desk drawer, waved it for emphasis, and drank from it at length.

Sam looked from the bottle to the still visibly annoyed Ray, then back at Gene. "Ray- _mundo_ ," he said slowly.

"What?"

"You called him Raymundo just before this happened," Sam said. He furrowed his brow, thinking about this. "And Raimundo is actually a Spanish name. I _think_. And now Ray's speaking Spanish... can't speak a word of anything else."

"So?" Gene was visibly becoming more tipsy by the second, his eyes already half-closed.

"And you called me Samantha, right before _this_ —" Sam stopped, gestured at himself with the flat of his hands. "Oh my God, that's it! Whatever you call us, Gene... that's what we become. When you call us by your... _pet names_."

"Nonsense," Gene mumbled. He set the bottle down carefully, and watched with chagrin as it tipped over and spilled its contents on the floor. Reaching out, he tried to set it upright, but only managed to empty it completely.

"No, that's it, that's it," Sam said excitedly. He moved forward, snapped his fingers in front of Gene's glazed eyes. "Forget that bottle, will you, just for a moment? Look: just call me by my name, guv. Call me Sam Tyler. No... let's not take any chances, all right? _Samuel_ Tyler."

Off Gene's uncomprehending look, Sam added, "Just do it. Trust me. Please."

Gene shrugged. "Right then. Samuel Tyler."

It didn't feel as though anything had changed, but Sam checked himself to be sure. He was still wearing the tailored blouse and skirt, and more depressingly, they fit him as well as ever. "Shit," he said in soprano frustration. "It's not working."

"That's 'cause you're talking bollocks," Gene said. Sam shuddered.

"Will you _please_ be careful what you say? It's definitely something to do with you and the things coming out of your mouth!"

Gene was staring at Ray now. "D'you know," he said conversationally, "I think he's really upset."

Sam rolled his eyes, but Gene was up out of his chair again, patting Ray consolingly on the shoulder and frog-marching him out of the office. Sam turned and watched them go, then sank onto the couch and ran his hand through his ( _huh, chin-length_ ) hair. A few moments later, Gene came back.

"That's Ray sorted," he said with satisfaction. "I've sat him down with a whisky and a stack of _Just Jugs_ ... reckon it'll keep him out of trouble for another hour or two at least. How are you doing?"

"I've been better," Sam mumbled. Then he tilted his chin up, looking squarely into Gene's eyes. "And I wish to object particularly to the _Just Jugs_."

Gene grinned. "You would." He wobbled back to his desk and sat down heavily.

"I mean it," Sam added. "It's bad enough I look like this, but to be _encouraging_ him..."

"There's nothing wrong with the way you look." Gene stared at him appraisingly. "I've seen a better chest on Reg Park, but your arse isn't bad and your legs are..." He trailed off. "Nice."

"Thanks. You Neanderthal."

"Now, now," Gene soothed. "No need to get stroppy, Sammy-boy. You're just going through a phase, and if I know you..." His voice trailed off.

"Gene?" Sam squeaked, suddenly aware that his voice seemed to have shot up an octave from soprano to falsetto. He turned and caught a ghostly reflection of himself in the office glass. A small boy in bib-and-brace overalls, doe-eyed with astonishment, looked back at him.

"Oh, lovely," he breathed. "Now I'm four years old, I suppose? That's just _perfect_."

Gene narrowed his eyes, then chuckled. "At least you don't have to worry about your tits any more."

"That," Sam said through gritted teeth, "Is. Not. Helpful." Then he startled as the hospital noises began again. He saw Gene's mouth moving but couldn't hear his words. Instead, he heard the strange voices, hushed with concern, overlaid with the beeping of the heart monitor.

       
_What was it this time, then?_   


_Another patient mix-up, I'm afraid. Cosmetic procedure. Apparently Sam received an extensive series of Botox injections..._

    

"That's not how it works!" Sam screamed. The voices abruptly faded away, and he became aware of Gene staring at him open-mouthed.

"I only tried saying Samuel Tyler again," Gene said defensively, "because I thought that's what you wanted!"

Sam closed his eyes and prayed for patience. "I think," he said eventually, "that it has to be spontaneous. If you intentionally call me something, it won't work.

"Which, of course," he added in treble tones, "makes this situation _bloody impossible_. The pink elephant paradox."

Gene looked at his bottle, then back at Sam, puzzled. "I haven't had _that_ much to drink," he said reproachfully. "And little boys _shouldn't swear_."

Sam lost it at this.

He kicked Gene in the shins as hard as he possibly could.

On sheer reflex, Gene kicked him back.

* * * * *

They were glowering at each other when DCI Litton swaggered in, preceded by a waft of expensive aftershave. "Hello, H—" He broke off as he gazed round at the litter of whisky bottles, then at the small boy who was sitting on Gene's sofa, dangling his legs and clearly upset.

"Baby-minding now, are you, Gene?" Litton sneered. "That's about your speed. Little kiddies and road safety. Begin with the simple things and master them first... "

"Not now, Litton," Gene growled. "Put your ten quid on my desk and get out."

Litton looked again at the little boy, who seemed to be avoiding his gaze. "Bullying children as usual, then, or have you actually orphaned the lad? What's he doing here all alone?"

"Litton..." Gene said dangerously.

Kneeling in front of the boy, Litton softened his voice. "What's the matter, son? DCI Hunt bothering you? What's your name?"

"Please," the lad said, still not meeting his eyes. "Please. I'm okay. Really. Will you please just _leave_?"

Litton ignored his words and rounded on Gene. "This is unprofessional even for you, Hunt! I can see you're pissed out of your head, and you've obviously upset the boy. I'm taking him down to the plonks, get this sorted out—"

"That's enough, you daft wanker!" Gene shouted at him. "Get out and stay out!"

A strange expression crossed Litton's face. He stood and, without a further word, dashed out.

Gene and the boy looked at each other and, very slowly, began to smile.

* * * * *

Sam was not surprised to see Annie appearing in the doorway a few minutes later. "Guv, it's DCI Litton," she said, her voice anxious. "He's acting... so strange."

She glanced over at Sam and did a baffled double-take, then turned to Gene, who was tilting the contents of a bottle into an already overflowing shot glass.

"Sir?"

"He's a strange man," Gene said patiently, still concentrating on the glass. "It stands to reason."

"This is different, guv. He's... he's in the corridor, he's got his trousers down around his ankles. And he's—" Annie faltered and lowered her voice to an almost inaudible whisper. "Sir, he's... _touching himself_ like mad, and crying like a baby. Superintendent Rathbone's trying to shift him, but DCI Litton seems unable to move." She paused. "Well, except for his right hand, that is. And what's in it."

Sam giggled involuntarily. Annie looked at him, startled, then soldiered on.

"And sir... the squad room is in chaos. DS Carling is behaving so strangely, and DC Skelton-- well, he's just _bolted_. We can't find hide nor hair of him. There's no sign of DI Tyler, either, and when I asked where he'd gone, Vince said--" She halted. "Said he'd turned into a _bird_. Guv, it's like everyone's gone mad!"

"You're not far from right," Gene commented. "All I want to do is have a Scotch and a kip, and I keep getting interrupted by plonks and twonks."

Annie stiffened. "Sir, with respect, this is your team we're talking about. You need to find out what's happening and restore order!"

"Oh, do I now? You seem to be having a fine time investigating on your own, Miss Marple, so I think I'll leave it to you to work it out for yourself!"

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. He sighed.

"Really, Mr Hunt," the tweed-clad woman said reprovingly. "There's no need to be impolite." She turned to Sam and held out her hand. "Sammy, I can see I'm not welcome here. Would you kindly accompany me to the canteen?"

He stared at her. "You know who I am?"

"An educated guess," she told him. "I've seen a photograph of you in which you're wearing these very clothes. Manchester _may_ be home to another boy of the same age, build and colouring — _and_ who also owns the same combination of Fair Isle jumper and bib overalls — but the odds are very much against it. Shall we, Master Tyler? I believe a cup of tea would do me the world of good, and I daresay you could find room for a scone."

Gene seemed to have fallen asleep again at his desk. Sam shrugged and took her hand. "Don't mind if I do. Just let me grab something from my desk on the way, will you?"

* * * * *

"I'm glad to see you have a decent appetite, young man," Jane Marple said approvingly.

Sam licked his fingers. His plate was strewn with crumbs and a smear of butter and strawberry jam, the only trace of the three scones he had just gobbled down. Annie — Miss Marple — had already downed her tea and was pressing a napkin primly to her lips.

"You won't mind if I get out my knitting as we talk, will you?"

Sam stared as Marple!Annie pulled a knitting bag out of her handbag, propped it on the table, and set to work. She really wasn't anything like Annie, he thought, aside from the air of intelligence and those sharp, observant blue eyes. He watched as the needles stabbed through the yarn.

Jane Marple glanced up at him shrewdly. "What is it, dear? You look as though you'd like to say something. Go ahead, I shan't bite."

"Who exactly do you think I am?" Sam blurted.

"You're Sammy Tyler, aren't you? The son of Ruth and Vic Tyler? Detective Inspector Tyler once showed me your photograph, back when I was... someone else, I think?... and he told me all about you."

Miss Marple paused and added delicately, "He also told me that he _was_ you; and since I do have the distinct impression that I was a much younger woman until very recently, I suppose there is an outside chance that you are indeed DI Tyler himself... unlikely as that may sound. As the great Sherlock Holmes said, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.'

"And," she purred, "I did observe that you knew _exactly_ which desk was DI Tyler's, and where in the desk to find his notebook."

Sam rubbed his face, caught between surprise and relief. "I'm DI Tyler, yeah. And you're Detective Constable Annie Cartwright. We neither of us look like this, normally. We've both been _changed_ by... some sort of weird magic of Gene's. Or maybe it's to do with the drugs they keep feeding me in 2006. Or even the combination of the two."

He explained at length what had happened. Miss Marple listened intently, then said: "So you truly believe it's to do with this outlandish name-calling of which Mr Hunt is so fond?"

"Yes. See here? I've been keeping a record of it." Sam flipped open his notebook and showed Marple the list he'd made. "It's quite strange really. It's as though once a week or so, a timer goes off in the guv's head, and he feels compelled to start using exceptionally _colourful_ names when referring to me... and to other people for that matter.

"Some of them aren't too bad, but some of them—" He shuddered and pushed it towards her. "Look. This is what I may have to look forward to, if we don't get this sorted somehow."

She examined the list. "I do see what you mean. 'Romeo' could be a little embarrassing, couldn't it?. 'Sulky boll—' ...oh, my goodness. And 'Tinkerbell', well... I wouldn't fancy flitting about on tiny wings myself. One might be mistaken for a housefly." She pointed at one of the names. "As for this one, I'm not even certain what a 'Brainiac' is."

Sam sighed. "A bald super-villain with green skin and a funny red suit. I _so_ don't want to go there. Or 'Sherlock'. I know it doesn't sound so bad, but knowing my usual luck, I'd probably wind up cocaine-addicted and _totally_ neurotic."

He picked up the notebook and leafed through it, frowning. "Huh... that's odd. It only goes up to the week when the guv was fitted up for murder. Never noticed it before."

"Is that relevant?"

"I don't think so... but you know what might be? Gene's never called me Samantha before, even though you might expect he would. Gladys, Daphne, Marjorie, Dorothy — not to mention Mother Teresa — but never Samantha. You might say it's non-canonical. So it's the fact he's calling me that _now_ that worries me. If he's coming up with new names, what else might he dream up?"

Miss Marple pursed her lips. "Well, let us focus on the question immediately before us. What can we do to ameliorate the situation? It's difficult to conceive a solution when we aren't yet certain of the cause."

"I _think_ ," Sam said carefully, "that the only answer is to try and sober Gene up. I've never seen him on this extended a binge, and this situation seems to be connected to it. So I reckon if we can stop Gene from drinking, get him dried out, then maybe these effects will be reversed. At least, that's my hope."

"All right, dear. I'll ask the canteen ladies if they can spot us a flask of strong coffee. Do you know if Mr Hunt fancies cream and sugar in his Java?"

* * * * *

"I do NOT feel like drinking your bloody coffee!"

"Please remember your company," Jane Marple said stiffly. "I'm sure you know better than to use vulgar language when women or children are in the room."

Gene snorted. "Remind me which of you is bloody which."

"No doubt that was meant to be insulting, Mr Hunt, but in your position I should fear the accusation of being _ungentlemanly_ more."

"Ooh! That hurt, you old biddy."

As they argued, Sam slipped around the room, checking the bottles. To his surprise, he couldn't find a single bottle or glass that wasn't already drained dry. "Annie!" he called over to her. "They're all empty."

Gene glowered. "'Course they are. They're not magic, they don't refill themselves." He cocked his head, considering. "Eh Sam, can you spot me a tenner? Run over to the off-licence and pick me up some more Scotch, there's a good lad?"

"I'm _four_. You'll forgive me if I roll my eyes?"

In the meantime, Miss Marple had located a cup and was already pouring the scalding-hot coffee into it. She handed the cup to Gene with an expression of deep disapproval. "I'd be obliged if you drink this now, you disgraceful young man, and frankly I shan't accept no for an answer. It's imperative that you make an effort to shake off that drunken fug you're in."

"Good God," Gene said, impressed. "You really are bossy when you've got a few years on you, aren't ya? Makes me long for the ol' flash-knickers, I'll tell you that for free."

"Eep," Annie said. She crossed her arms over her bra, then turned away, flushing scarlet.

"Christ, Gene!"

"Ah, that's better," Gene said with satisfaction. Sam watched in consternation as Annie snatched Gene's camelhair coat from the coat rack, wrapped it around herself with trembling hands, and speechlessly fled the room.

"Did you do that on purpose?" Sam demanded, furious. Gene shook his head, then winked.

"Guv! You've _got_ to stop this! It's _not funny!_ I'm terrified that you'll say something even worse, and that I'll be turned into God-knows-what. And what if we're stuck like this for good, Annie and I?"

Sam was mortified to find himself beginning to sob. He pressed his palms against his eyes, then added tearfully, "I hate you! Don't you even care that you're hurting us?"

"Sam... Sam..." Gene breathed. "Don't cry, eh?" He moved closer and sat on the couch next to Sam, then drew him close in a disconcertingly powerful hug. His voice became soft. "I care about everyone on my team, you div. Ray, and Chris, and Annie... and especially you, my little Deputy Dawg."

Sam coughed as the beeping of the heart monitor rang through his head. The colours around him drained to black and grey.

       
_This is beginning to look like carelessness, Nurse..._   


_I'm sorry, Doctor! I can't understand how it happened. We haven't had a single animal on ward, not even a service dog, yet somehow Sam seems to have contracted a full-blown case of canine distemper. He's been inoculated now, of course, but we're giving him a full series of vaccinations now to be on the safe side. Canine parvovirus, infectious canine hepatitis, leptospirosis, canine parainfluenza virus... the works._

    

_He should have had them when he was a puppy. Will you follow up with his GP, please?_

    

His vision cleared and Sam found himself gazing again at the reflection in the office glass. Long, dangling ears... a snout... and an open waistcoat adorned with a five-pointed star. A wide-brimmed black hat and — dear God — were those _shorts_? Stretched over a ridiculously rounded belly?

"I'm a bleeding _American cartoon character!_ " Sam squealed in an unspeakable Southern drawl. "Gene, how could you?"

"Oi!" Gene protested. "I didn't mean nowt! I've never even _seen_ 'Deputy Dawg'! I thought it was just an expression!"

"And now I sound as if I've got marbles in my mouth! I can't even speak properly!"

"Sorry, couldn't make that out. Can you say that again?"

Sam let out an involuntary bark, then sank to the ground in utter despair. He had a sudden desperate urge to lift a leg at Gene's desk, but pushed the impulse down. _I'm still Sam Tyler_ , he told himself. _I'm in control of myself... I am Sam Tyler and I am in control..._

And then he piddled on Gene's desk.

"Jesus!"

Sam whimpered helplessly as he turned his back and kicked some non-existent earth onto the offending liquid. "I'm sorry! I can't help it!"

"Goddammit!" Gene roared. "You're supposed to be my DI, Sam, now for once will you start _acting like it!_ "

There was a flash... but, blessedly, no voices this time.

Sam blinked. "Oh."

He looked down at himself. Long, slender, _human_ arms and legs. The well-loved leather jacket. Cuban-heeled boots. Sam felt a particular thrill of relief at seeing the Cuban heels. God, it was good to be five foot ten again.

Gene smiled tiredly. "Good to have you back, Sam," he said. "No hard feelings? You're not upset?"

"No hard feelings?" Sam repeated. "No hard feelings?" He thought of what he had just endured; what Annie, Ray and Litton were _still_ enduring. Anger rose in him. "Of course I have hard feelings! You've just humiliated me repeatedly — and three other people as well! Why would I not be upset? I was on the verge of suggesting we knock off work and go _fishin' for catfish_! I don't even know what catfish _are!_ "

"You're right as rain now, though," Gene pointed out amiably. "No harm done that I can see." He considered, then brightened. "What d'you say to a pint at the pub?"

"You have got to be joking me!"

Gene looked puzzled. Then his face cleared, and he gave Sam a friendly nudge.

"My shout, eh?"

"God," Sam groaned. "You really don't get it, do you. You've got us into this because of your damn careless speech, your incessant drinking, and this bloody compulsion you have of slinging insults at everyone around you!"

Gene narrowed his eyes. "Will you," he said, speaking distinctly, "stop being such a noncy-arsed fairy boy and stop complaining for once?"

Sam's eyes widened.

* * * * *

Gene realised, three seconds too late, what he has just said, and audibly gasped. "Sam!"

Sam looked back at him levelly and raised an eloquent brow. After a moment, Gene relaxed.

"It's no longer working," he said with evident relief. "I reckon the spell is broken now... maybe because I'm starting to sober up. That's put everything right and all."

Much to Gene's puzzlement, Sam didn't speak. Instead, he leaned across, picked up Gene's discarded necktie, and looked at the hideous pattern as though mesmerised. Very slowly, his fingers stroked the polyester.

At that moment, Ray's agonised voice drifted into the room. _¡Ojalá nunca hubiera venido aquí hoy!_

For a moment, Gene puzzled over the strange syllables and wondered what they might mean. Things _were_ back to normal, weren't they? That last word had sounded like "Oi", after all...

And then he saw Sam's lips twitch.

Gene's mouth dropped open. "Sam?"

His DI slipped off his leather jacket with a sinuous grace that Gene had never seen before. Then Sam produced a pair of handcuffs, dangling them between his fingers as though displaying them. The silver metal of the clasps gleamed and twisted in the light, but what really caught Gene's eye was the hot-pink fur.

Then he moved towards Gene. Lithely. Swiftly.

Gene's mind raced. "DI Tyler!" he shouted, hoping against hope that shouting his name would do the trick and restore Sam to his usual talkative, over-analytical, _predictable_ self.

It didn't.

Instead, Sam snapped one cuff to Gene's unresisting wrist and the other to the desk. Then he took up the coiled necktie, wadded it up, and stuffed it into Gene's startled mouth with a gentle, whispered "shh".

And as he reached down to tug open his DCI's flies, Sam's lips slowly curved into a sensuous smile.

He'd always preferred the strong, silent type.  



End file.
